


The Second Road  (Original Version)

by bittenfeld



Category: CHiPs
Genre: Beating, Gen, Gun Violence, Police Procedural, Shooting, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3814093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ponch and Bair get caught in a dangerous situation, when some vicious criminals draw them out alone into the back-country and pin them down with no radio and no back-up coming.</p><p>Final – Chapter 2:  At last Frank broke through enough to get a view.  Neither Barry nor the gunman saw him.<br/>Barry was down, squirming on the ground, arms raised to cover his head; and the man stood over him, Barry’s own baton in his grip, and he was clubbing Barry viciously with it, head and body, like he seriously intended to beat him to death.</p><p>I posted this story earlier as a T.J. Hooker fic, but actually this is the original version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I just got one question: ” Officer Frank Poncherello remarked to his partner as the patrol car rumbled down I-5 North slightly over the speed limit. “How can you stand being cooped up all day like this?”

Officer Barry Baricza glanced away from the pavement for a quick second to toss Poncherello a questioning glance. “Like what?”

“Like this car, man. Steel, glass all around you. Man, don’t you wanna ride out in the fresh air, feel the wind in your face, commune with Nature, y’know what I mean?”

“Yeah. But I’ve got a question for you.” Baricza smirked. “All you bike jockeys communing with Nature: how do you keep the bugs out of your teeth?”

“Practice, m’man, practice. Hey, keep your eyes on the road, or I’ll have to write you a ticket for reckless driving.”

“You do, and I’ll kick you out, make you ride your baton back to Central.”

“Ooh!” Poncherello groaned. “Let’s not get nasty now.”

Three cars ahead and one lane over, a gold Camaro abruptly cut across two lanes of traffic, narrowly missing a red VW, then shot ahead, accelerating a good twenty miles over the speed limit. Indignantly the beetle honked.

“You see that?” Frank alerted.

Already Barry was reaching for the light-bar switch. “I see it.” As soon as traffic opened up, he put the pedal to the floor, and began maneuvering toward the offending vehicle.

The Chevy’s driver didn’t see them until they pulled up alongside. Then suddenly he recognized the black-and-white pacing him, and jammed on the brakes to slow back down below 55. Barry stayed with the Chevy, while Frank motioned the driver over, then the patrol car dropped back to follow.

Frank shook his head wearily in reaction to the Camaro’s abrupt deceleration. Put on the brakes real quick, and maybe the nice officers won’t know you were speeding. Only trouble was, at least eighty-percent of speeders tried that tactic, and well, nice cops just weren’t so gullible anymore.

Within another tenth of a mile, the Chevy pulled over onto the shoulder. Barry parked the patrol car about fifteen feet to the rear then got out and walked toward the driver’s door. Frank took his position beside the squad car.

The encounter seemed to be under control. The driver was the only occupant. He was a kid, maybe sixteen, seventeen. The car looked to be in good condition, maybe an ’80 or ’81, worth a good six grand at least. Where would a sixteen-year-old pick up six-grand?

Baricza returned to the black-and-white with the kid’s license and registration.

“What’s up?” Poncherello questioned.

Barry just shrugged. “Name’s Nick Weyerhaus. It’s his dad’s car. Say if he doesn’t get it back home by eight o’clock, he’ll catch hell.”

“Did you tell him if he keeps driving like that, he’ll catch more than hell?”

“Didn’t have to. He was telling me. I just agreed with him.”

Barry finished writing the citation while Frank kept watch on the vehicle. Every few moments the kid turned around in his seat to see what was going on in the police car. Then Barry took the ticket to the kid, and Frank got back in the cruiser.

They’d been on patrol for little more than half-an-hour, and already they’d made three stops. Gonna be a busy night.

“Y’know,” Barry commented as he climbed back into the car, “I don’t like the look of those clouds. It’s gonna open up within the hour, I bet. I wanna go back to Central and pick up my rain gear.”

Frank grinned. “What do you need rain gear for? Just stay in your warm dry car and don’t make any stops, and you’ll be fine. Now y’see, on a motor, though, you really need your gear, otherwise you’d look like a drowned rat.”

Barry didn’t glance at his partner, as he maneuvered back into the traffic flow. “I knew there was a good description for you.”

Poncherello just made a face.

At the next overpass, Barry turned around onto the southbound freeway. It was probably twenty miles back to Central. They’d both get their rain gear, then probably continue on south to the end of their beat, then head back up north again. Frank sure hoped Barry was wrong about the clouds. For the last week it had been raining off and on, and then at night fog would roll in off the bay, and Southern California drivers drove crazy in fog and rain. Already today there had been one multi-vehicle pile-up on the Glendale freeway for the previous shift to clean up, and Frank was in no mood to copy them tonight.

“Hey,” Baricza interrupted his meditation, “You and Phyllis free this weekend?”

“Well, we weren’t planning anything, why?”

“Well, Bobbi and I are going up to Big Bear Friday after work, and we just wondered if you guys wanted to come along.”

Frank shrugged a negligent shoulder. “Wall-to-wall tourists.”

“Not if it rains.”

“You mean you’re going up even if it rains?”

“Sure. No wall-to-wall tourists.” Barry grinned. “Nah, a friend of Bobbi’s owns a lakefront cabin, and she’s going away for the weekend, so she said Bobbi could borrow it. For the last month Bobbi’s been saying she has to get out of the city or she’ll go loony. Sooo… rain or shine, we’re going up to Big Bear this weekend. Sound interesting?”

Frank slouched back in his seat, rested a boot up against the glove compartment. “Eh, I dunno, I mean, it’s bad enough bein’ cooped up in a squad car with you, five rainy nights in a row. Forty-eight hours straight in a rain-soaked cabin, I think _I’d_ go loony.”

Barry just shrugged it off. “Yeah, but with Bobbi and Phyllis there, we’ve got better things to do than just look at each other.”

“Yeah, you got a point there.” Frank grinned. “Sure, I’ll give her a call, let you know if we can make it.”

“Great. You’ll love it. Get away from the LA traffic and smog…”

“Hey, there’s almost as much smog in Big Bear these days.”

“Yeah, but it’s mountain smog.”

Poncherello groaned. “There’s a difference?”

Erratic movement in his side mirror suddenly caught Frank’s eye. He sat up straight, his feet hit the floorboards. “Hey, Bair,” he announced. “Looks like we got a deuce comin’ up on us from behind.”

Barry checked the rear-view mirror. “Yeah, we sure do. He’s coming up fast.”

The white Mustang was doing close to eighty in their lane. It weaved several times as it gained on the patrol car.

“Hey, you better move over,” Frank suggested uneasily. “He’s gonna climb right up our tailpipe.”

But as the Ford neared them, it slowed to match the cruiser’s speed, then began flashing its headlights: high – low – high – low – high – low.

Barry glanced into the rear-view mirror again. “Hey, he’s no deuce – he’s got something to tell us.” Then kicking on the right-turn indicator, he moved the car off the roadway. The Mustang pulled in behind.

The Ford’s driver was hurrying toward the Dodge before Barry and Frank opened their doors. He was middle-aged, white hair and moustache, wearing a grey double-breasted suit. He approached Barry’s door. “Officers, please…”

Frank stepped out onto the shoulder. “Would you step over here, please, sir, out of the traffic?”

The man went over to Frank’s side. He was sweating, trembling, breathless, obviously half-scared out of his wits. “Officer, there are some crazy guys back there, with guns!”

“Back where?”

“The rest-stop back there.” The man pointed north. “I was pulling out of the parking lot, when these two punks in a station wagon blocked the road. I yelled at them to move, and one of them pointed a gun at me. They were laughing like they were crazy. I think they’re on something. Then they moved enough for me to get by, but when I drove past, the idiot put a bullet through my door. They’re nuts!”

While Frank stepped back to check the man’s car door, Barry leaned across the front seat to talk to the man. “Can you give us a description of the station wagon and the men, sir?”

The man was breathing hard. “Yeah, it’s an old Chevy – ’58 or ’59, I think – green mostly but a lot of big rust spots like it was being repainted but nobody finished the job, just let it rust.”

”Did you get the license number?”

“No. No, when they shot at me, I just got the hell outta there, I didn’t think to look at the license number.”

“That’s all right, sir. What did the men look like?”

“Oh, they were young guys.”

“How young? Kids?”

“No, early twenties, I guess. I didn’t pay close attention.”

“Were they white? Black? Hispanic?”

“White. The guy that shot at me was wearing a denim jacket, but that’s all I saw. Can’t you do something with that?”

“We’ll try, sir,” Barry assured. “Do you have any idea which way they were headed? Do you know if they followed you from the rest-stop?”

“I don’t know which way there were headed, but they were just coming in as I was leaving. They might still be there.”

Frank returned to the patrol car and stuck his head in the passenger side window. “Yeah, there’s a bullet hole in the driver’s- side door, about four inches from the bottom of the window frame. Looks like a .38 maybe.”

The man seemed relieved. “Well, I hope you get those guys before they kill someone. They were acting crazy. They really must be hopped up or something.”

“We’ll do our best,” Frank promised, then took out his notebook. “Before you go, sir, could I have your name and address? We’ll want to see later if we can retrieve the slug from your car door.”

”So you can match it with the gun, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sure, my name is Arthur Levanston, and I live in Bakersfield.”

While the man conferred with Frank, Barry reached for the radio mike. “LA-15, 7-Adam, we have report of shots fired at the Topanga Canyon rest-stop on I-5 South. Suspects are two males, early twenties in a green ’58 or ’59 Chevy station wagon. No plate number available. Last seen at the rest-stop.” He released the transmit button, and waited for LA’s confirmation. None came. He could here the dispatcher communicating with other cars, but did not reply to his transmission. He tried again. “LA-15, 7-Adam, do you copy?”

Poncherello climbed back into the car, after sending Arthur Levanston on his way. “What’s wrong?” he inquired.

“Oh, the radio’s acting up again, just like it did last night.” Baricza switched channels. “LA-15, 7-Adam, do you copy?”

“7-Adam, we copy,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled through the radio. “Proceed with…” Static overwhelmed the transmission.

“Hell,” Poncherello muttered to himself.

“We have report of shots fired at the Topanga Canyon rest-stop on I-5 South. We’re going to check it out.”

Static. “… Adam, 10-4.”

Frank shook his head, shot a glance at his partner. “I told you yesterday we should report it. This is a hell of a time for the radio to break down on us.”

Baricza was maneuvering across four lanes of traffic to U-turn through the weed-covered divider strip. “Yeah, but after awhile last night it worked fine, and I checked to see if anyone today had written it up, and they hadn't. And it checked out fine in the barn an hour ago. So I figured it was just a little glitch yesterday, and everything’s okay.”

A deprecating sound escaped Frank’s lips. “Well, so what do you wanna do now?”

“Well, I think we at least oughtta check out the rest-area. The Chevy’s probably long gone by now, but maybe somebody saw a license number or something. See if we can get some kind of a lead. And don’t worry about the radio. This is just how it acted last night. And it finally cleared up.”

“Bair, I can’t even hear the dispatcher now.” Frank gestured toward the radio, from which emanated a flow of static, broken every few seconds by a fragment of unintelligible transmission. “How are we gonna call for back-up if we need it?”

Baricza didn’t answer, as he drove up the ramp leading to the rest area.

The weed-spotted area with rustic facilities lay at the top of a rise. Twelve, maybe fifteen scattered cars were parked in the stalls; and several small clusters of people sat at picnic tables or waited by the two outhouses, or stood by their cars.

Slowly the Dodge rolled up and down the rows of vehicle. Volkswagens, Plymouths, Fords – one Chevy sedan – but no green 1959 Chevy station-wagon.

“Well,” Frank mused, “Looks like we missed them. Let’s ask around for witnesses…”

“Wait a minute,” Barry interrupted. “Wait a minute. What have we got over here?”

In the far corner of the rest-area, parked all by itself in a stand of brush, stood a green late-50’s Chevy station-wagon, with huge rust patches on the hood and right front fender.

“Bingo,” Frank breathed.

The front seat was empty: the Chevy’s occupants had either ditched the car, or maybe were visiting the little boys’ room.

Frank directed his spotlight on the front license plate.

Barry thumbed the mike button. “LA-15, 7-Adam. 10-28,29 license Nora-Ida-Mary-One-Niner-Three.”

This time the dispatcher’s voice cut through the white noise. “7-Adam, Nora-Ida-Mary-One-Niner-Three. Stand by.”

“10-4”

“So far so good,” Frank commented, keeping a watch on the outhouses across the lot.

“It’ll be okay,” Barry assured.

“7-Adam,” the radio crackled again. “Nora-Ida-Mary-One-Niner-Three. Registered to Michael Henry Thompson, 8-2-6 Bay…” A burst of static overwhelmed the rest of the message.

Baricza waited for the noise to quiet before he spoke again. “LA, 10-9 all after 8-2-6.”

Static drowned out the beginning of the repeat. “… -6 Bayview Drive, San Clemente. No wants or warrants.”

“10-4.” Barry hung up the mike.

Frank indicated the outhouses by a nod to the side. “What say we take a stroll over there, see who comes out?”

“Okay,” Barry agreed. “You take the right, I’ll take the left.”

They got out and started for the twin facilities. But before they had gotten half-way, the rumble of the station-wagon’s engine starting up interrupted them, and they jerked around to see a guy in a denim jacket run from the brush and jump into the passenger side. Metal flashed beneath the open jacket like a pistol jammed into his waistband. The driver was already behind the wheel, and as Barry and Frank raced back to their vehicle, the two guys hooted, and the passenger yelled something, accompanying his pronouncement with a obscene gesture. Then the Chevy squealed out in a spray of sand, and roared off toward the exit.

The cruiser’s doors slammed shut, as Barry jammed the key into the ignition. “Damn, they must’ve been watching us from the bushes all along!” Stomping on the accelerator, he wheeled off after the Chevy, full lights and siren.

Frank grabbed the mike. “LA-15, 7-Adam, Pursuing Nora-Ida-Mary-One-Niner-Three northbound I-5 north of the Topanga Canyon rest-stop. Suspicion of illegal discharge of firearm. Request back-up.”

No response.

“LA, do you copy?”

He switched frequencies. “LA, come in please. 7-Adam requests assistance northbound I-5. Do you copy?”

Nothing. Just the buzz of indifferent static.

Baricza aimed the black-and-white through the gaps in the traffic. “Y’know,” he suggested, “maybe they can hear us, even if we can’t hear them.”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

As an empty stretch of roadway opened up, the Chevy accelerated away from them. Barry stepped on the gas, pushing the cruiser up to seventy, seventy-five, eighty. The highway traffic had thinned out considerably as the grade began to climb up into the Angeles mountains, and the station- wagon and the police car maneuvered through it with ease. Eighty-five, ninety.

“Barry, we’d better call it off,” Frank insisted. “There’s no back-up coming. We’re nuts to take this on without back-up.”

”Maybe LA heard us,” Barry repeated.

“Barry…”

Suddenly the station-wagon veered off the roadway onto the gravel shoulder, then turned onto an adjoining old fire-road. Mud and gravel sprayed out from beneath vehicle, and for an instant the rear tires spun in the mud before regaining traction, then the car lurched forward again and took off.

Barry slowed down to take the turn, but the ground was slippery, and for a moment the cruiser’s rear end lost traction and slid in a yaw across the tire ruts left by the Chevy. Deftly Barry steered out of the skid, then hit the gas pedal again. By now the Chevy had gained several car-lengths on them.

The dirt road wound up into the hills, sometimes at a sharp climb. Weeds had overgrown the little-used path, and rocks lay scattered in the roadway. Both vehicles had difficulty maneuvering, neither able to gain much on the other.

Finally, about a mile in, when the muddy road and the overgrowing vegetation got to be too much for an ordinary passenger car to handle, the Chevy braked abruptly and both doors flew open. The two occupants piled out, laughing, giggling, and ran toward the brush on either side.

The Highway Patrol cruiser squealed to a stop behind the station-wagon, and from the car Baricza yelled, “Halt where you are! Get your hands up!” He was halfway out the door when the driver-suspect turned, revolver in hand, and fired off a shot. The red flood on the light bar exploded right by Barry’s head, some of the splintered plastic striking him on the side of the face, and the gunman hooted again. Barry hunkered down and returned fire. Maybe one shot grazed them man – he flinched – but instead of falling, he plunged off into the overgrowth. Barry ran after him.

Frank reached to unlock the shotgun. Instantly two shots shattered the windshield. Hurriedly he dived out of the car, without the gun, then drawing his sidearm, scrambled into the brush after the passenger suspect.

Another shot. It thunked into the side of the patrol car. Frank spread-eagled into the mud. Several yards away came the sounds of a body crashing through the brush. Frank scrambled after it.

Gunshots reported some distance away down a rise on the other side of the road where Baricza had chased his man. Frank wondered whose fire that was, he wondered if Barry was hit. The thought distracted him momentarily.

Pain exploded in his right side, tumbling him to the ground, and then he heard the blast of gunfire. Shock and surprise distorted his face as he lay there, feeling zags of pain burn up and down his side and down his gun arm. Moisture welled in his eyes.

But then after a few moments, the initial shock passed and he realized he wasn’t dead or even badly disabled. Shifting the revolver to his left hand, he clambered warily, stiffly, to his knees. A hot poker of pain stabbed him again, welling more tears down his cheeks. He looked down at the wound. A bloody rip about three inches long creased the side of his shirt. Maybe the slug had gouged out a couple inches of flesh just beneath the ribs, but that’s all it seemed to be. He prayed that’s all it was.

He stopped momentarily to regain his bearings and listen for any sounds of disturbance in the brush. Nothing but a breeze rustling leaves. Either the suspect had run off and was long gone, or he was hiding in the brush nearby waiting to finish the job on one lone cop.

Poncherello decided his best chance for survival lay in returning to the car and retrieving the shotgun. Watching the shadows in the scrub for signs of movement, he limp-ran back to the cruiser.

The shotgun was missing from its brace.

Poncherello jerked around to cast a quick glance across the area. Had Baricza come up and taken the gun? If not, then it was in the possession of one of the suspects, and he and Baricza were screwed. Where was Baricza? Was any back-up coming?  And where were the gunmen now?

And who had the shotgun?

 _to be continued_ …


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ponch and Bair get caught in a dangerous situation, when some vicious criminals draw them out alone into the back-country and pin them down with no radio and no back-up coming.
> 
> Final – Chapter 2: At last Frank broke through enough to get a view. Neither Barry nor the gunman saw him.  
> Barry was down, squirming on the ground, arms raised to cover his head; and the man stood over him, Barry’s own baton in his grip, and he was clubbing Barry viciously with it, head and body, like he seriously intended to beat him to death.
> 
> I posted this story earlier as a T.J. Hooker fic, but actually this is the original version.

Poncherello’s eyes scanned the brush down the hill where Baricza had disappeared with his half of the suspect pair. Tendrils of haze drifted up the rise. After the gunshots down there several minutes before, there had been no further sound, but neither Barry nor the suspect had emerged. Meanwhile, Frank had lost track of his own man.

Now he was really getting concerned. Darkness would soon settle in, Barry could be dead or wounded, one or both suspects could be stalking him now, and he was completely alone without even radio communication. Pain throbbed in his side.

He hunched behind the open right front door of the cruiser, revolver in one hand, mike in the other. “LA-15, 7-Adam, come in,” he hissed over the radio, concerned that someone else might hear if he spoke too loud. “Come in, LA, please come in!” Static. His gaze darted around the surrounding area, catching every movement in the dead grass, sizing up any possible chance that the gunmen were trying to sneak up on him. He wished like hell he had a better view of the area on the other side of the car. He wished like hell his own man hadn't gotten away from him.

Reaching for the radio knobs, he switched channels to the nearest repeater station. “LA-15, 7-Adam, come in please!”

A trickle of fear-sweat dribbled between his eyes. Hastily he wiped an arm across his fore­head The fear had settled into a steady squeezing in his gut. Cops died in situations like this.

He switched to the car-to-car frequency. “This is 15-7-Adam. Any unit in the area, please come in. Any unit in the area, please respond!” He released the transmit button and waited. Silence. He tried again. “This is 15-7-Adam. 11-99. Somebody please…”

“Freeze, pig!”

Frank’s heart leapt. Despite himself, he released a startled moan. Muscles tensed with a rush of adrenalin, and he started to spin around.

“I said, freeze, pig!” the voice growled again. “Or I’ll blow your goddamn brains all over the place!” A metallic clack of a shotgun shell racking into the chamber.

Poncherello froze. The man was just a couple of feet behind him.

“All right, now drop the gun.”

Incidents from Academy training flashed through Poncherello’s mind in horrible mocking clarity. Rôle-playing, hostage situations. He remembered the instructor’s admonition: 85% of the officers who’d surrendered their weapons were later executed – many with their own guns. Do any­thing you have to do, but never give up your gun. But right now he could feel the gunman’s aim trained right on the back of his head, and his imagination taunted him with a projection of the impact of the shotgun’s blast taking off his head, and he was almost tempted to surrender if there was even just a fifteen percent chance of saving his life.

He wondered what kind of chance he’s have dropping to the ground, rolling and firing. It wasn’t very good. For protection, he had squatted between the car body and the open passenger door; however, instead of protecting him, it now trapped him, and the man behind had a perfect unobstruc­ted bead right on his head.

Something to divert the man’s attention, take him off-guard, give Frank an extra second to dive from the line of fire.

“Well, c’mon, you damn stupid cop, I said drop your gun!”

Instead Frank looked to left as though he saw someone, and yelled, “Hey, Bair, watch out!” Then abruptly he dived to the right, away from the car, rolled and came up firing. One shot took the man in the face, another in the chest; and the man’s body jerked back, sprawled back on the ground, and lay still.

A trembling sweating Poncherello sat in the dirt. He grabbed deep moaning breaths of relief, feeling his heart pound against his chest, feeling his side throb with pain, feeling blood-soaked mater­ial slide greasily against his skin. Blood leaked in his pants, oozed down his trouser leg. He won­dered how much he’s lost already. God why won’t it stop? He didn’t want to die. The pain was worse now than it had been right after the shooting. He could feel it in his crotch, like a hand squeez­ing his testicles… please make it stop god please make it stop.

Slowly he realized that sitting still actually increased the pain. All the time he’d been up and moving, he hadn't noticed the hurt – his mind had been pre-occupied with the gunman. However, moving around also increased the blood loss. He had to stanch the flow somehow. He thought about taking his shirt off and using it as a pressure bandage, but he couldn’t work his right arm well enough to get the shirt off. So, holding his left hand on the gash, weakly he staggered to his feet.

His legs shook helplessly, and he had to lean against the roof of the cruiser for awhile, just dragging in air, nearly sobbing. Is this what is was like to be in a real shoot-out? He thought he might throw up. His mind played and re-played with increasing intensity, the death-sound of the shotgun shell racking into the chamber. And over and over he saw himself sprawled face-down in the muck, the back of his head blown away by the double-ought blast.

“:Gddd!” he cried abruptly, then caught himself. He couldn’t let the pain abuse his mind, he had to get control of himself. He wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t going to die.

Slowly the fear sickness in his belly gave way to adrenalin exhaustion, and he just wanted to climb into the back seat of the cruiser and collapse.   But the fight wasn’t over yet. There was no time to rest.

One man was down, but another was still up, and Baricza was nowhere in sight. Was he dead? If he wasn’t dead, then why hadn't he reappeared yet? And where was the other suspect? Was he still down with Barry, or was he up now looking for Frank?

Another outburst of movement and noise from down below. Frank prayed it was Barry. After grabbing the shotgun from the dead gunman’s hand, he scuffed down the muddy rise toward the commotion, pressing his right elbow tight against his wound. He wondered if Barry was hurt. Now he considered that he should have brought the trauma kit with him, but he was already halfway down the hill, and he didn’t want to go back for it. Besides, the other gunman needed to be dealt with first.

A shot snapped off. Frank dived to the dirt. God, the situation was still live down there. With the back of his hand, he wiped the tears and sweat from his face. Then scrabbling behind a rock for cover, he reloaded the empty chambers of his revolver, then began working his way the last hun­dred yards to the thick copse of undergrowth.

Fighting and yelling from the scrub. Thank god, that meant Barry was still alive. It might be bad, but at least he was still alive.

At last Frank broke through enough to get a view. Neither Barry nor the gunman saw him.

Barry was down, squirming on the ground, arms raised to cover his head; and the man stood over him, Barry’s own baton in his grip, and he was clubbing Barry viciously with it, head and body, like he seriously intended to beat him to death.

Frank stared horrified, but he didn’t dare use the shotgun for fear of hitting Barry.

The baton swung again, smacked across unprotected ribs, had enough to break something. Barry grunted with the impact, cried out in pain, writhing helplessly. Again the club raised, then hissed down for Barry’s head.

The crack of a pistol shot interrupted its descent. And once again a body jerked with the impact and spun to the dirt.

Frank holstered his .38 and tried not to think about the second dead man as he ran toward Barry. It was Barry who needed his full attention now.

Baricza’s service revolver lay in the dirt several yards away beside a clump of weeds where either he had dropped it, or it had been knocked from his hand. The baton which had fallen from the other man’s grip now lay between them.

Barry dragged air slowly and uncertainly, and each breath hitched like even that simple act caused too much pain.

“Hey, Barry, “ Poncherello urged, as his gaze took in his partner’s bloody head and face and the torn blood-stained uniform. “Hey, Barry, talk to me.”

Baricza’s response was no more than a groan. Dull eyes stared up unfocussed. Blood oozed from one nostril. Dirt and blood matted his hair down on this right temple. The right side of his face didn’t look normal.

“C’mon, Bair, you’re gonna be all right,” he comforted, even as he started checking for injur­ies. At least Barry was breathing and had a pulse. Several wounds bled, but none severely. So far, so good. But maybe broken skull, busted ribs?

He undid Barry’s uniform shirt, pushed up his t-shirt, then began gently palpating render ribs. Red abraded areas blotched the skin, some swelling and contusing already apparent.

Frank ran his hands over one bad area, and abruptly Barry cried out, then a fit of coughing interrupted him. Frothy pink-tinged saliva spattered his uniform, drooled from his mouth. Punctured lung from a broken rib – now Frank wished he had the trauma kit and oxygen tank with him. Instead he would have to go all the way back up the hill to the car to get it. His own wound made him feel light-headed – he wasn’t sure he could even make it back to the car.

He measured the distance with a squinting eye, then laid a comforting hand on Barry’s head. “I gotta go to the car, but I’ll be right back. You just hang in there, okay, man?”

A little sob escaped Barry’s lips, and Frank felt the sickness return in his stomach. Barry needed real medical help, and he heeded it right now. Frank wished he could just drive Barry out of there, and get him to a hospital; but Barry was certainly in no shape to walk to the car, and Frank couldn’t carry him up the rocky slope. And he didn’t dare leave Barry alone to drive for help.

Dusk was fading rapidly. And with no radio contact, and no reason for anybody else to hap­pen to drive along this old fire road, they were in a real hell of a mess.

He patted Barry’s shoulder gently encouragingly, then began climbing the hill to the cruiser, all the while trying to ignore the stab in his side.

He got the supplies from the trunk, and just as he was starting down the hill again, engine sounds from an approaching vehicle caught his ear. Headlights rounded a curve, and Frank sagged with relief. A black-and-white LASO cruiser pulled up behind the CHP car.

Two deputies got out and approached Frank, revolvers drawn. Warily they noted what was left of the gunman lying beside the open passenger door of the Highway Patrol cruiser, and the dirt and blood soiling Frank’s uniform, even as sharp gazes scouted the surrounding area.

“We heard some shots, saw your tire tracks back aways,” the taller blond deputy announced. “You need our help here?”

“Oh thank god,” Frank breathed. “Am I glad to see you guys.” Abruptly a stab of pain im­paled his side, and a queasy vertigo shimmied over his brain. He thought he might vomit, or might pass out. Dropping the trauma bags, he made a desperate grab for the car to keep from falling.

The blond grabbed him, as well as the other deputy, a young black man. “You need to be looked at.” The blond plucked at Frank’s bloody shirt. “What’s going on here?”

Frank panted to regain his wind. “We were chasing two ADW suspects, they almost got away from us.”

“You get ‘em both?” The black man indicated the body sprawled back in the dirt.

Frank nodded tiredly, jerked his head toward the hill. “Yeah, the other one’s down there with my partner.” He made a half-attempt to brush away the hands examining his wound. “But my part­ner got busted up real bad, worse than me, and I gotta get back to him. Look, could you call for a rescue chopper? – our radio’s out and he’s got a punctured lung.”

“Yeah, sure,” the black man agreed, “but you stay up here by the cars, okay? I’ll go down with my partner and we’ll stabilize your buddy.”

Frank started to protest, but the man overrode him. “Look, if you try to do any more, you’re going to pass out, and that’s not gonna help your friend. Now don’t argue, just stay here, okay? Now, c’mon, I’ve got a thermos of coffee in the car – that’ll make you feel better.”

Then putting Frank’s arm across his shoulders, he helped Frank to the black-and-white, then got on the radio, while the other deputy hefted the two trauma bags and jogged down the hill to Baricza.  
* * * * *

Officer Poncherello slumped disconsolately in front of the watch commander’s desk. The tell-tale bulge of rib-taping was evident beneath his dark-blue jersey turtleneck.

“I _knew_ we were making a mistake,” he insisted for the third time in ten minutes. “If we just hadn't gone in without back-up, none of this would’ve happened. When the radio acted up, I told him we should call it off. God, I…” Thumb and forefinger squeezed the bridge of his nose.

Lieutenant Bill Thatcher and Sergeant Joe Getraer watched the younger man slouched in the chair before them. They knew how Poncherello felt – two good officers wounded: one now lay in a hospital bed, half-conscious from a concussion, facial bones broken, a lung collapsed; the other, flesh wound, broken rib.

“Don’t blame yourself, Frank,” Lieutenant Thatcher consoled. “Neither of you could have foreseen what would happen.”

Frank sat forward, gestured impatiently with one hand. “Bill, we knew we were responding to a shots-fired call. We knew it could be a potentially dangerous situation. I should have demanded that we don’t check it out until we got confirmation on the back-up. I guess I just didn’t insist strongly enough. Now Barry’s in the hospital, and I could have prevented it… I don’t know why Barry didn’t wait for back-up. He’s too smart a cop to make a dumb mistake like that.”

“But at least it’s over now.” Joe Getraer spoke calmly, quietly. “Look, why don’t you let me drive you home, why don’t you spend the night at our place?”

“No, Joe…”

“C’mon, we’ve got the extra space. Betty’s already made up the bed in the guest room. You really shouldn’t be alone tonight, Frank, you’re injured and you’re upset. How about we go by your place, you can pick up anything you’ll need, then I’ll take you home.”

“Joe, I’ve got reports to write…”

”They can wait, Frank. Besides, shift will be over in another hour anyway. We can go over all of it tomorrow, okay?”

“All right.” Frank just sat there slowly shaking his head resignedly, and pronounced, “I killed two men tonight.” A humorless smile. “You know, all the time I’ve been on the force, I’ve never had to draw my gun before.”

“And because of it, you and Baricza and still alive,” Bill interrupted definitely.

Frank nodded, eyes closed.  
. . . . .

 **Notes:** that’s all there is to this version. When I modified it for T.J. Hooker, basing it on an episode of that show where Leonard Nimoy guested with William Shatner, I lengthened it and added the Hooker/Maguire relationship.


End file.
